


Unaware Of The Clarion Call

by prouvairablehulk



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [6]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry doesn't like Werewolves, M/M, Mick and Len are Fae Kings, Urban Gothic AU, whoops my hand slipped and this got long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6837694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Central City has a bad case of Sunnydale Syndrome, and Barry Allen knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unaware Of The Clarion Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JQ (musicmillennia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/gifts).



> Joker gave me the prompt "Urban gothic: Barry finds out why nothing has attacked him at night, like everybody else: he has protectors. (can have a Barry ship if you want)" and this, I think, has turned into a verse? We'll see.

Central City has a bad case of Sunnydale Syndrome, and Barry Allen knows it. The things that go bump in the night tend to take people with them – as a CSI, Barry’s seen more than his fair share of the aftermaths. He’s seen the blood spatters that come from vampires who are messy eaters – if they were interrupted the blood spurts for feet when they wrench their fangs out. He’s seen the emaciated bodies of those pulled away by the lure of sirens, watched those driven insane by the calls of banshees rip themselves open, cleaned up the ashes of someone who thought messing with a dragon was a good idea. The issue is, really, that no one will admit that there’s an infestation of magical creatures in Central City, or that those creatures are responsible for the deaths. No, its gang activity, or unusually vicious homicides, or drugs. (Barry thinks fairy dust should be classified as a drug, given the rohypnol-style uses they find for it). Barry’s no Slayer, and he knows he’s wandered into the wrong part of town only to come out on the other side unscathed, so he’s left utterly bamboozled as to how. 

Take right now, for instance. He’s pretty sure that the gang that had been following him for the last three blocks of his walk home are a little too furry to be entirely human. He’s ducked into a 24-hour Laundromat to see if they’ll pass without tracking him – he’s been working a serial killing spree that Eddie has labeled a “copycat mountain lion” because somehow that makes more sense than “werewolf pack” – and now he’s sitting on the folding table with his knees crossed staring at the message function on his phone and trying to decide if “help I think I smell like whatever’s causing this murder spree” is a text he can send to Joe without him being sent back to a psychiatrist. 

“You look like you could use a hand.” 

Barry looks up, and takes in the young man who has just spoken. He’s not extravagantly tall, but he’s not short, either, and his hair is long enough to brush at his shoulders when his head turns. He’s wearing an iZombie t-shirt under a corduroy jacket and a pair of almost-purple jeans, and the smile on his face is like sunshine has incarnated itself into human form. He’s also a little blurry around the edges, like the world is trying to parse him into a format that Barry will be able to comprehend. 

“Maybe a little?” Barry hazards, because for all he knows this could be one of the werewolves currently tracking him. 

“Werewolves can be vicious little assholes. I’m Cisco, by the way. The bosses said I should come check on you.” He offers a hand towards Barry, grin brightening another voltage. 

“So it is werewolves? And bosses?” asks Barry, finger twitching towards the station number he has on speed dial, just in case. 

“You still smell like their victims, to them. And yeah, the bosses.”

“Why do they care? About me, I mean. Also, who are they?”

“What do you know about the Fae, Barry Allen?” asks Cisco, and there’s something odd and rippling in his tone. 

“Only what the old stories tell us.” says Barry, tilting his head to one side as he tries to shake off whatever complicated something is settling across his brain. 

“Huh. So it is true. You need to come with me before something dramatic happens.”

“What’s true?” demands Barry, as Cisco all-bar drags him off the table. “Where are we going? Why are you looking after me?”

“The reason the bosses wanted you tailed is true. We’re going to Avalon Square Station. And because you’re important.”

“Avalon Square Station has been closed for the last fifteen years.” 

Barry’s desperately digging his heels into the linoleum, as though the rubber of his Converse will give him some kind of traction to stop the draw on his wrist. Cisco’s stronger than he looks. 

(Not that Barry’s been looking. Okay, twist his arm, Barry’s totally been looking. Sue him. It’s a very nice view.)

“Useful, isn’t it?” chirps Cisco, happily. They’ve passed through the back door of the Laundromat now, and Cisco’s pulling him down a subway access tunnel that opens on to the alley. The chain and lock are both rusted closed, but glow brightly and open to Cisco’s touch. The tunnels are dark and damp, but the further Cisco leads him in the more moss is on the walls, the less brick and concrete is visible. When the tunnel widens into the old station, Barry’s hit with a sudden wave of music, a burst of light and sound that somehow projects nothing so much as home. There are people everywhere – people like Cisco who are blurred at the edges like reality can’t handle them – but every part of the party in the station is focused on the thrones at the highest open landing on the access stairs. There are four– two larger ones, both occupied by unfairly handsome men, and two smaller ones, one occupied by a younger woman with almost-red hair and inhumanly pale skin, dressed entirely in white and blue and blue gemstones, and one filled with a young man in orange and leather who’s sprawled across the wood, something that looks like fire licking across his dark skin. 

“Okay, crash course.” says Cisco, into Barry’s ear. His breath is warm on Barry’s throat and Barry has to try very hard to not let his thoughts descend even further into the gutter than they had already sunk when he realized Cisco could manhandle him. 

“The Fae are divided into two Courts, Summer and Winter. At the moment, Winter has a King, a Lady, and a Knight, and Winter has a King and a Lord, but basically as long as the three positions are filled, no one cares about the gender of the members. Winter’s King is Cold, it’s Lady is Snow, and it’s Knight is Glider. Summer’s King is Heatwave, it’s Lord is Firestorm, and it’s Knight is – well – you.” 

“Me?” 

“As far as we can tell, yes. It’s why the Kings have had the Fae tailing you every time you end up in a position where you might die. The fallout from your powers being unlocked can be contained here. It can cause a lot of damage upstairs, so we’ve been making sure you avoid magical confrontations.”

“Assuming I believe you, where do you fit into all this?” Barry asks, because there are three options available to him in this moment, and considering he can’t be sure he could get out of the tunnels safely and alone, and there seems to be too much at stake for Cisco for Barry to be able to convince him that a make out session in the nook they passed a few feet back is a good idea, the question is really the only option left. 

“I’m the tinker.” says Cisco, proudly. “I make sure the balance is maintained. And I get to make cool gadgets while I’m at it.” 

Barry returns his grin, weirdly convinced by this statement, and turns back to the thrones. 

“So what do we do now?” 

“I need to take you to see Heatwave.” says Cisco, and takes Barry’s hand to pull him through the crowd. As they pass, certain Fae seem to drop out of the throng to follow them. Cisco goes back to narrating each new member of their train.

“Mardon, the Weather Wizard. Hartley, the Pied Piper. Shawna, Peek-a-boo. Axel, the Trickster.” 

They reach the foot of the stairs, and Barry is suddenly struck by how much more attractive the Fae Kings are up close. Heatwave has the broadest shoulders Barry’s ever seen, crossed easily by scars from burns, which wrap all the way down to his wrists and the small of his bare back. He slouched comfortably on his throne, one denim-cad leg slung over the arm and a crown of gold – wire thin and curled like flames – tilted roguishly on his head. Cold is his polar opposite, dressed in form-fitting but covering black, barring the royal blue cloak lined in white fur that is draped over his shoulders. He sits dead-straight upright, the languid curl of his hands the only form of movement in him until Cisco climbs the stairs to the landing below the thrones. King Cold shoves himself to his feet, swaggers a few steps down towards Cisco, and then drapes himself across them like a pinup from the forties. 

“Who did you bring us, Cisco?”

“I bring you Summer’s Knight, my liege.” declaims Cisco, and Barry is suddenly the subject of intense scrutiny from both of the Kings, as King Heatwave rolls from his throne to his feet like some kind of predatory jungle cat and stalks down towards him. Barry feels pinned down by their gaze, Cisco’s hand on his shoulder his only anchor to anything that isn’t the wide-blown pupils of Heatwave’s eyes, the way Cold’s gaze strips him bare. 

“Well, then, will you wake him?” demands Heatwave, and Cisco grins. Barry opens his mouth, part in question, part in response to the weirdness that has been this night, and the Fae Cisco had introduced as Weather Wizard punches him in the kidneys.

“What the hell?” yells Barry, looking up at Cisco with wide, betrayed eyes. At the next hit, he turns and tries to swing back. Two more, and the return hit Barry launches lands in a burst of yellow, sending the man stumbling backwards. The next three hits don’t even come close to touching him as Barry dances out of the way. Punches slide towards him in slow motion and Barry laughs as the fly uselessly by. Suddenly there are strong hands on his shoulders, and he’s turned to face the broad chest and bright, violent grin of King Heatwave, who laughs with him, joyous and free. 

“Welcome home, my knight.” says the King, says Mick, and tugs him close enough to fit their lips together. It’s nothing romantic, no burning lusts or fires of passion, but rather something paternal, something that feels like home in the brush of chapped lips against Barry’s. When he releases Barry, its into the overly enthusiastic hug of the young Lord, Firestorm, who insists Barry call him Jax, and then he’s being passed on for a forehead kiss from Cold (“Len, kid, call me Len”), and a surprisingly warm squeeze from Snow, who is Caitlin, apparently, before being returned to a spot under Mick’s arm. 

From there, the night devolves into a blur of riotous color with only a small number of clear images standing out as memories. He remembers flinging himself into Len’s lap to try and explain the importance of moral codes while the other man just laughed and laughed. He remembers Mark, the Weather Wizard, apologizing for the hits, and offering to help him learn to control the lightning. He remembers feeling vaguely perturbed by watching Mick and Len kiss, like he was watching his parents. He remembers Caitlin convincing him to sing. He remembers Mick and Jax getting him to run lap after triumphant lap of the station concourse. He remembers Shawna racing him from point to point as they laughed. He remembers Mick’s arms, warm and solid around his shoulders, his waist, like a home he never knew he was missing. And perhaps best of all, he remembers convincing Cisco that a make out session in the nook just out of sight is an utterly fantastic idea. 

He wakes the next morning with a half-moon of hickeys around his collarbones, a number and a promise of dinner that night inked on his arm and signed “Cisco”, and a pendant like a lightning bolt he doesn’t remember being given. There’s a fuzziness to the edge of his face in the mirror that makes shaving hard, but he ignores it and heads into work. Joe gives him a sideways glance when he arrives, like something is wrong, but then shakes his head and lets it slide. The crime scene, when they arrive, is clearly the work of a vampire, and Barry can see several more lingering in the shadows by the warehouse. They scatter when they catch him looking, like they’re terrified of him, and loiter even further back. Barry’s partially engrossed in his work when he half-senses the vampires completely disappearing. There are voices behind him, familiar enough that he doesn’t turn until Singh calls his name. There are two men, broad-shouldered and comfortable in their stance, standing with their backs to Barry as he approaches. 

“Allen.” says Singh. “Meet our newest pair of detectives.” 

It’s at this point that Barry stops listening to what Captain Singh is saying, the point at which Len’s lips twitch into an icy smirk, the point at which Mick throws him a warm wink. 

“Did you really think we’d leave you alone now we have you, Flash?” purrs Mick’s voice at the back of Barry’s mind, and the pendant around his neck glows warm.


End file.
